


What She Doesn't Know Will Kill You

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-01
Updated: 2007-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-19 23:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: You would do anything for her. But she doesn't know.





	What She Doesn't Know Will Kill You

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

                                   **What she doesn’t know will kill you**

So this is mainly a short one-shot based entirely on an article that appeared in the UMass college newspaper, The Daily Collegian, written by Matt Brochu. So all the credit goes to him, and of course, to JK Rowling, for creating Lily and James. I only changed it slightly and added more things, like the conversations. I hope you like it! Please review. 

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You finally got to meet her decently a few months ago, when you both became Head students and you decided it was time to act maturely, and somehow she managed to seep into your subconscious like that “Suga how you get to fly” song. Just like you don’t have a clue who the hell sings it, you don’t know why she’s there. But she is, whether you like it or not. You know her telephone and her address back at home. You can dial her Aunt Doreen’s house in London (where she stays at Christmas) faster than you can peck-out 911. But she doesn’t know.

“Yes?”

“Hello Lily. It’s me, James. I just got a hang on one of these tephelones and wanted to try it.” You try to make it sound nonchalant, as if you hadn’t bought the damn thing and learnt how to use it just for her. “You know how the guys are with muggle stuff.”

“James, it’s a telephone.” She said, laughing.

“Well, yeah, that.” You say, glad that she can’t see you, as you were blushing deeply.

These are the ridiculous games you have to play on a daily basis: To go see her or not; to call or not to call; to send her an owl or wait until she returns. But she doesn’t know.

She’s it. All right, so maybe not “it” it. Not necessarily Ms. Right, but closer to Ms. Right-up-there-with-The-Salem-Girls-on-your-list-of-people-you’d-give-anything-to-be-stranded-with-on-a-broken-down-elevator. But it’s about more than that. When is it ever about more than that? Never. Not like frilly white gown, overpriced catering, embarrassing drunks in-law more, but closer to sweatpants, a stash of butterbeer, a futon and a story you have no interest in reading more. But she doesn’t know.

“Why are you crying?” you ask, genuinely concerned. She looks at you from were she’s lying, on top of your chest. Her hands are holding that book she said she wanted to read with you.

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I say?” she jokes, smiling, not knowing how true her words are. You’ve been lying with her on top for the past hour. You found each other in the Common Room, unable to sleep and she came up with this idea. But you haven’t been able to pay attention. You were too caught up staring at her.

She’s gorgeous, but gorgeous is an understatement. More like you’re startled every time you see her because you notice something new in a “Where’s Waldo” sort of way. More like you can’t stop writing third grade run-on sentences because you can’t remotely begin to describe something, someone, so inherently amazing. But nothing seems right. You’re afraid that if you stare at her for too long, you’ll prove your parents right: that yes, your face will stick that way. But you wouldn’t mind.

“James?”

“Hmm?” you ask, not paying much attention. You’re in the library with her, not being able to concentrate in nothing but the way her face moves when she’s trying to concentrate.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning. 

“Nothing, why?” you reply, still in your world.

“Because you’ve been staring at me for the last minutes. Do I have something on my face?” you immediately snap, noticing that you’ve been caught. 

“No, don’t worry, I just spaced out.” She seems to accept this and you breath in relieved. But she doesn’t know.

You don’t mind that the greeting “hello” from her side makes you want to smile and throw up at the same time. You don’t mind worrying about what to get her for her birthday and spending 62 galleons, 4 sickles and 22 knuts when you only have a bit more than 3 galleons and a Zonko’s card to your name. You don’t mind that she left your Wizard Radio on and the blaring infomercials woke you up at 4 a.m. because it gives you a chance to watch her sleep. You don’t mind that you’ve slipped up twice when you were hammered and hinted at how you feel, but she was too drunk to remember. So she doesn’t know.

“Well, my Potter, aren’t we fine today?” She slowly walks your way at the celebration party for winning the Quiditch Cup yet again, which is being held at the Gryffindor’s Common Room. You instantly notice she’s drunk, just like you. Possibly more.

“Well, my Evans, aren’t we flirty today?” you ask, trying to maintain the conversation light-headed.

“Want to kiss my Potter?” she slurs, looking at you in the eye.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for far too long, Evans.” You say, but she doesn’t realise the real meaning of it. She never will. Even if she was sober.

Sure, she’s pretty, but it’s about more than that. You two connect. Anything you throw at her, she can throw right back. You figured out what’s going on in that predictable head of hers in under five minutes, but something tells you that her heart would take much longer.

“No, I’m not sneaking to the kitchens to get you some chocolate ice cream just because you are craving it.” You say, smirking.

“How did you know I was going to ask you that?” she asks, confused, and you can’t help but love her pout.

“You are too predictable.” You respond, smiling kindly.

“No I’m not.” She says, frowning. Then her face changes. “Please? Pretty please? With a cherry top?”

And you surrender foolishly.

You remember everything she’s ever said to you, and when that freaks her out you blame it on your photographic memory (which is a lie). You can’t remember when your homework is due for or at what time you have your rounds, but you can remember the middle name of the kid who tripped her in First Year and gave her that cute little scar on her shoulder. Maybe it’s because you actually listen when she talks. When do you actually listen? Never. But she doesn’t know.

“There was this boy that went with me at school in…” she starts.

“Yes. Freddy Olsen, your first kiss. I know, you’ve told me before.” You tell her.

“I have? I can’t remember.” She looks confused. “How is it that you remember everything I say?”

“I have a good memory, I guess.” You say shrugging, trying to maintain your cool.

But she has a boyfriend. The kid is a tool, and you’re not. He has no redeeming qualities and you have about 38, even when you are hung over. You could kick his butt, and you’ve never been in a fight in your life. He treats her like crap, and you would treat her like the princess she believed herself to be when she was small and did not know about witches and wizards.

“Get your arm of her shoulder Potter.” He tells you trying to look disgusted while you are sitting with her in the Common Room.

“Leave him alone Tom, we are just friends, and you know it.” She fights back, just when you were about to tell him that she is not his property. But your heart sinks when she says this, and no words can fall out of your mouth anymore. 

But she loves him. He wouldn’t know what he had even if she slapped him across his face and dumped him, but somehow she still loves him. And somehow she still doesn’t know.

“He’s taking me to dinner tonight.” She tells you, smiling.

“Because you had to insist. He’s a bastard.” You say, sincerely.

“So what if he is a little bit forgetful, I still love him.” She continues, making your blood boil. You feel so frustrated. You don’t know what else to do to show her that you are much better than any boyfriend she ever had.

“I know Lily, believe me, I know.”

Then, out of nowhere, one day she slaps him across the face and dumps him. 

“Don’t you dare get near me ever again! You hear me?! You lying son of a bitch!” she shouts, with tears flowing freely down her cheeks, disappearing down her neck. She leaves him there standing astonished and you feel so proud of her, even though you’re going to have to tell her to wash her mouth.

She comes to you. You’ve been there before, so you seem like the smartest guy on earth. She cries, but your corny half-joke, half-compliment somehow gets a smile out of her that almost makes you feel ashamed that you’re the only one around who gets to witness it. It looks like you might make her realise that all guys don’t deserve to have rocks thrown at them.

“Why are all guys such idiots?” she asks you, on the verge of tears, while you hold her against you, loving the feeling and hating yourself because of it.

“Excuse me, Miss,” you say, changing the sound of your voice to make it sound comical. “But I believe that there are still some gentlemen around. Even though they are scarce and hard to find. You just tend to like the vile men that surround you. Aye Miss, I know it’s true.”

She giggles at your face and plays along:

“Oh, really Mister? And do you happen to know any?” she asks, changing her pit and accent.

“Aye Miss, you are looking at one right now, Miss.” You finish with a mockingly serious face, while she giggles uncontrollably on top of you. She suddenly sobers up and says seriously:

“You have no idea how thankful I am for having you on these times. Thank you. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” you smile.

“You are worth it.” You confess, and she blushes. 

But nothing changes. She doesn’t know. You get that library elevator feeling that she’ll never know. You get that feeling that you’ll be forced to write a cheesy school column about her that makes “Sleepless in Seattle” look like “Girls Gone Wild”.

“So, you want to do something this weekend?” you ask her, now that she is finally free. “Sure.” She answers. But your smile vanishes when you listen to her next phrase. “Who’s coming?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought about it.” You admit.

“Well, when you decide, let me know. I’d love to have some fun.” She smiles at you and walks in the opposite direction. She doesn’t see, therefore, the look of clear disappointment that crosses your face.

You go to sleep. You wake up. She doesn’t know. You’re not in love. You’re not obsessed. You blame it on the fact that you just need to get some, but still it’s about more than that. It would just be nice if once in your life, things worked out the way you wanted them to.

So LilyEvans, it’s about time you know.

“Lily.” You start, taking a deep breath. She looks at you expectantly. “ I have something to tell you. Something I’ve been wanting to tell you for time now.”

“What is it James?” she asks, puzzled.

“Lily, I know this might ruin everything we have, but if I don’t tell you now, I’m afraid I will never be bold enough to try again.” You say.

“Okay James, now you are starting to creep me out. What is it? Just spill.” She tries not to sound too curious, but you know her enough to see through it.

“Lily, I love you.” 


End file.
